In the dead of night, while Arael sleeps, I let my consciousness drift—a tendril of my mind slipping past the veil of reality. The familiar, overwhelming expanse of swirling souls and cosmic dust presses in around me. The scroll in my grip vibrates, but only softly, careful not to alert anyone nearby. Unlike last time, I don't force my way in searching for knowledge; this time, I seek connection. From the parchment, faint threads stretch beyond the fading room, reaching into the void. I follow them, and the realization hits me: these scrolls aren't just spells to unlock ancient power—they are conduits, anchors, drawing raw arcane energy from that endless realm. My warlock pact is similar, though different; it draws from the earth's power and the energies within the human body. Pulling back from the brink, my vision blurs as the room and Arael solidify around me. Startled, I glance over to see if I've woken her. I can't tell if, just like last time, power surged through me or not.
Arael shifts on the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders as she peers at me through half-lidded eyes. "You alright, pretty boy?" she asks, her voice tinged with concern and a teasing lilt. "You're muttering to yourself. Honestly, I'm starting to think you've lost your mind. You haven't let go of that precious scroll once in the last half hour."
I sit up, rubbing the fatigue from my eyes before meeting Arael's gaze, my expression grave. "The scroll is only one of many," I say, my voice trembling with a mix of awe and frustration. "With how I am right now, I can barely hold onto the realm it's tethered to." The lingering awe from my journey still laces every word.
Arael snorts, rolling her eyes as she flops back onto the pillow. "There you go again, rambling in that arcane gibberish. I swear, sometimes I wonder if you even hear yourself."
I let out a breath, trying to explain. "Magic's like a muscle—you have to train it, strengthen it. Usually, that means your connection to the arcane grows. But this scroll…" My fingers tighten around the parchment. "It's not linking me to the arcane at all. but—something else. The void."
Arael lifts an eyebrow, curiosity flickering across her face. "The void? You said that before. Did you come up with that name yourself, or is it from a dusty old tomes?"
A laugh escapes me, the sound a little raw. "Yeah, I did. I coined it. The place I saw… it was just emptiness, endless currents of souls drifting by. Calling it a void felt right, somehow."
I hesitate for a moment, watching the uncertain flicker in her eyes. "But tell me, Arael." A genuine curiosity in my tone. "Why join me? I give promise of power and such, but is that reason enough?"
Arael's gaze drifts to the ceiling, her fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. "Maybe I'm desperate. Maybe I'm just bored out of my mind. Maybe I need a reason to wake up every morning…" Her voice trails off, the vulnerability clear before she masks it with a crooked smile. "Truth is, yeah, I'm desperate. I owe the undercity more than I can ever pay." The smirk she forces is brittle. "And those jobs I've been scraping by on? Not worth it. But here, with you?" She laughs, the sound tinged with longing. "At least I get a better show than the festival's magical lights, pretty boy."
I can't help but grin, trying to cut through the heaviness. "You know, I used to perform in those festivals—shooting sparks into the sky, trying to impress anyone who'd watch."
But then her tone shifts, growing sharper. She sits up, facing me directly, her eyes fierce. "But seriously—have you ever been overlooked, pretty boy?" There's a bitter laugh in her throat. "When every door slams shut, and every 'chance' you get is because of how you look, not who you are—it's a cage. Just as real as any dungeon cell." Her voice trembles, but her gaze never wavers. "I want to build something that lasts. Something no one can steal. If that means siding with you, for now… so be it. I want to live." The last word hangs between us, desperate and raw.
"To live," I echo softly, the words lingering between us. I stretch back onto the bedding, turning to face Arael, searching her expression in the dim light. "You know, I grew up on a farm. No ambition, really, except to tend the land. Then the imperial academy testers came—tore me away from my parents for a price. I was too young to understand, but now I do. Because of the arcane connection I had, I was taken, thrown into a system I didn't know." My voice drops, a softer glint in my eyes as I meet hers. "I may not know what life is like for you, Arael, but I understand what it is to live in a cage." I reach out, letting my hand hover just above hers, hesitant but hopeful. "But together, maybe we can find a way to live free. I promise I'll try."
For a long moment, silence fills the room—thick, charged. We both retreat, turning away from each other: Arael curling tighter on the couch, me sinking into the bedding, lost in our own thoughts. Shadows flicker across the walls as the weight of what's to come settles between us.
Sleep eludes me. I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts spinning. With a cautious breath, I send a single thread of my consciousness outward—a delicate probe seeking connection, not control. I picture shimmering lines, conduits running from the scroll to the void. But the threads unravel, snapping back with a jolt of exhaustion, not the gentle hum I long for. The void remains wild and unreachable. In the back of my mind, Arael's voice drifts in, grounding me.
"Still at it?" she murmurs from across the room, her tone a blend of annoyance and genuine worry.
And I snap back her words, a welcoming return to the tangible world.
She gives a soft, mischievous laugh. "Trying to conjure yourself a naked companion with that new 'void' magic of yours? You'd better get some sleep before the night's gone. We've got a long day ahead."
I snort, playing along. "I'll conjure the perfect woman—she'll outshine even you, Arael." Then, softer, "Goodnight, Arael."
Dreamless sleep claims me. The gnawing frustration and the psychic fatigue drain away, replaced by the gentle balm of oblivion. Hours later, a jarring sensation and the sound of rustling fabric pull me back to awareness. I blink as the faint morning light filters through the window. Arael stands over me, already packing her gear for the day.
Arael's voice cuts through the quiet, brisk and purposeful as she secures her blade at her hip. "So, this Lord Marco you mentioned—where exactly is our target?" She glances at me, a skeptical arch to her brow. "Or are we just going to stroll around robbing every rich-looking mansion until we get lucky?"
I rub the last traces of sleep from my face, trying to sound surer than I feel. "I don't know much about the man, but he wears a golden seal—fire-breathing horses, I think. Look for a house with those markings. That'll be it." My words stumble, hesitance showing. "Let's meet back here in a few hours. Before—"
She cuts me off with a dismissive wave, rolling her eyes. "Yes, yes, before nightfall, cults, doom, blah blah. Horse and gold—got it. I'll check on the reinforcements. When are we making the hit?" Her tone is brisk, but there's a glint of excitement in her gaze.
"Soon," I answer, keeping my true intentions veiled. Marco isn't the real target—he never was. After that duel, I doubt he's even alive, and breaking into his fortress would be suicide. No, my plans are bigger. "Where's the nearest alchemy store?" I ask, forcing nonchalance. "I need a few supplies."
Arael shrugs, a note of suspicion in her voice. "Just down the alley, near the city center. What are you after?"
"Just some arcane trinkets—nothing to worry about," I say, dodging her gaze.
As she slings her pack over her shoulder and heads for the door, I stop her, my voice low and serious. "Arael, what are you willing to do?" She freezes, her features hardening. "If it came down to it—could you take a life?"
She turns, locking eyes with me, her jaw set. "If something stands in my way, I won't hesitate. I've taken lives before—even those I cared about. So if you're worried I might turn on you if you cross me?" Her lips curl into a dangerous smirk. "You should be. I won't blink."
Without another word, we part ways. I watch her stride uphill toward the city's wealthier districts, her back straight, unafraid. My mind races with plans and half-truths. Why the secrecy? Because I still don't know if I can trust her—and this is safer than a doomed heist. But will it save me? Or kill me anyway?
Ansmery is a compact city, every storefront pressed tight against the next, all forming a great circle. Five layers make up the city: the innermost ring brims with market stalls, while each subsequent layer blends commerce and homes, the wealthiest living closest to the center in towering buildings rather than broad estates. Everything is connected, no alleys left unclaimed. The city's edge is marked by a massive stone wall, its only real opening the sewage channel passing beneath through iron gates—visible from the main entrance. If my plan is to work, those steel gates will be the hardest part to escape.
Lost in thought about the city's maze, I barely notice when my feet bring me to the alchemist's shop.
••
Is he just a madman? Does it make me mad to follow him? Would I kill for this? Yes. Not to would be weakness, and I am not weak. Never again. I shake off the thought and make my way toward the second circle.
I slip past patrolling guards and the few early sightseers. The gilded gates soon tower before me—spikes gleaming, walls high and thick, a private force encircling the estate. No, not a house—a castle. How does anyone earn this much coin in Ansmery? Controlling an entire city block is unthinkable. Marco must be a bastard to flaunt it so. There's no doubt: the blazing horse crest is stamped on every inch of stone and iron. Robbing him would make us rich, but it would also be suicide.
No matter how powerful Leo thinks he is, I doubt even he could break into this place. I circle the perimeter, counting guards—there seem to be endless pairs.
After hours of watching the house, checking times, double- and triple-counting the guards, the truth is clear—this place is impenetrable. How could Leo possibly pull this off? There's no flashy trick that could crack this fortress.
Doubt creeps in as I walk back to the brothel. A man full of promises—isn't every man? What sets him apart? Yet Leo is different; maybe he sees me, maybe he understands. How far am I willing to go? Robbing Marco would mean death or prison, but Leo draws me in. I want to know if he's real, or just another liar.
Still, my feet bring me back to the brothel. I could walk away—never see him again, never think about this. But I don't. I stand before the door, heart thudding, and knock.
"Come in," comes his voice from the other side.
As I step inside, a woman slips past me, draped in nothing but sheer lace. She moves with practiced ease, vanishing down the hall.
"Enjoying yourself before the big day?" I tease, raising an eyebrow as I watch the woman disappear.
He laughs, unbothered. "Like you said, a man's a man—always weak for simple pleasures."
Still, I catch myself watching his bone hand as he lounges on the bed. He changes clothes, and I don't look away.
"How was it?" Leo asks, breaking the silence. "The house?"
"Impossible," I say flatly. "Breaking into the royal palace South of here would be easier. The place is a fortress—no way in."
He only laughs. Why is he so calm? The mission's doomed—unless he's holding something back. I watch as he tears a strip from the bedding, curious despite myself.
"That's a shame, but I expected as much." He shrugs, unfazed. "That's why we need a Plan B. Tell me again—what are you willing to do?"
He's relentless, always pushing. I've already told him—I'd do anything. "Depends," I say, voice flat.
"Depends?" He raises an eyebrow, moving toward the window. "On what?"
"What is this, Leo?" My voice hardens, irritation flaring. "If you're setting me up, I'll cut you down where you stand." My words rise, edged and sharp. "Tell me what's going on."
He flicks his fingers, summoning a flame no bigger than a match head. "Would you care if the city burned, Arael?" His voice is strangely calm. "I don't double-cross a partner. You don't need to worry about that."
"Burn the city? What the hell are you talking about?" My voice is incredulous. "Have you lost your mind?"
"Would you care, Arael?" he asks again, voice eerily steady. "If many died in flames?"
My answer slips out, my voice trembling. "No. Let it burn. This city's never done a thing for me."
"Good." He touches the flame to the strip of cloth and, without hesitation, drops it out the window.